


The Future Has Still to be Won

by elizajane



Series: Let Your Indulgence Set Me Free [10]
Category: Haven - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic Fluff, Future Fic, Multi, Puppies, Therapy, Unconventional Families
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 16:16:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4752785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizajane/pseuds/elizajane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What this family needs is a dog,” Dwight says one night over a game of seven-to-one. [Nathan POV]</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Future Has Still to be Won

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Crowgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/gifts).



> For Crowgirl who wanted Nathan to have a puppy. It was going to be all “Dwight shows up with a rescue dog” but then Nathan had feels and wanted to talk to his therapist a lot. Disclaimer: I am not in any way a trained therapist. Spoiler: Eventually there is a puppy.
> 
> Takes place between the end of “Hostages I-III” and probably a year or two before “Promises Made.” I'm still working out the details of this canon-divergent timeline, but it departs from the television series around mid-season four.
> 
> Update: Changed the title as originally published. 9/8/15.

“What this family needs is a dog,” Dwight says one night over a game of seven-to-one on the porch. He’s become a regular for dinner on the Sunday nights when nothing in Haven is exploding. And because Dwight is Dwight it doesn’t feel the least bit awkward that he’s the only one at the table who isn’t crawling naked into the same bed a few hours later.

The other three players look up from their cards as Dwight lays his next hand on the table and picks up his bottle of Spinnaker.

Duke looks at Audrey who looks at Nathan who looks down and shuffles a card three places left.

“I always wanted a dog, as a kid,” Nathan says to the cards in his hand. “The Chief was allergic. And then -- it’s never seemed like the right time.”

“Mm,” is Dwight’s only further comment, as he sweeps the round and takes another swig of his beer.

They’ve talked about it, the three of them. Audrey’s been back for almost a year now and they’re starting to consider the possibility of a future that isn’t a series of crises filtered through exhaustion simply alleviated by the relief of having one another to cling to in the night. But so far Nathan hasn’t felt ready. Audrey’s said she’s happy to follow their lead on the question of pets and Duke so far hasn’t pushed -- beyond making it clear if (when) they adopt a dog he’s naming it Toyon, "Dog of the North."

“Scuppers,” Nathan counters. “My dog was always going to be Scuppers.”

“And what if the dog in question has its own opinion on the matter?” is Audrey’s unhelpful contribution; both Duke and Nathan glare at her.

Nathan scrapes the edge of a fingernail across the inside of his wrist, just to feel the burn. Duke notices, like he always does, and places his free hand over Nathan’s wrist and squeezes. Nathan can feel the pressure and just a hint of something else. It’s been a better week than most. That morning, in the shower, he and Duke had taken their time sliding wet, soapy hands over warm skin while Audrey cooked up a batch of waffles to the modulated tones of Weekend Edition Sunday on MPBN. He’d closed his eyes and tried to follow the sweep of Duke’s hands up his thighs, across his ass, fingers dancing up the bumps of his spine, pushing up into his wet hair as Duke pressed kisses across his cheekbones. Over the shush of the water he could hear the radio and kitchen sounds of Audrey’s breakfast efforts. He'd tried to feel it in his skin, how this is their life now, how they’re learning to live with the Troubles in Haven and slowly make them better.

How that’s enough.

Audrey plays her hand to his right and lifts her glass of whiskey, the ice cube clinking against the glass as she takes a sip, raises her eyebrow: “Your turn, Wournos.”

He’s so going to lose this round. And he so doesn’t care. Because it’s Sunday night and nothing in Haven is burning down or freezing over and at the end of the night he’ll fall asleep wrapped in his lovers’ arms.

He catches Dwight’s eye before playing his hand. “Maybe you’re right about the dog,” he says, nodding across the table. Dwight tips his head in acknowledgement: “Maybe I know a guy,” he says. “When you’re ready.”  

They’re living at Audrey’s these days, a space that’s really too small for the three of them but works because Audrey brought little with her and Duke still has the Rouge and Nathan’s always lived nine tenths of his life at the office. He still owns the Chief’s old place on the south side of town, the rambling old farm house Nathan grew up in, but he thinks about it as little as possible and knows he’ll never want to live there. Before the current tourist season Audrey and Duke had spent a week cleaning out the ground floor and they’ve been renting it out by the week to well-heeled New Englanders. The income helps pay the property taxes.

So they’re living above the Gull, with both the restaurant and the Rouge as an extended living room. They’ve made it through one Maine winter without breaking up and found ways to coexist in what amounts to one big room without killing one another -- though they had made a trip down to Bean’s the previous October and shelled out for a king-sized bed frame, mattress, and bedding. Co-sleeping no longer entailed waking up every time one of his partners rolled over or got up for a pee.

That night, after Dwight beats them handily -- meaning he’ll be responsible for the next week’s dessert -- and drives off home, Nathan lays awake tucked between Audrey and Duke and thinks about how much he wanted a dog when he was seven, and ten, and thirteen, and how he’d always known he couldn’t. He’d closed that door so many years ago that the thought of cracking it back open seems daunting, dangerous.

ooOoOoOoo

“We’re thinking about getting a dog,” he says to Martha when they meet on Tuesday morning for his regular session.

“Oh?” She says, one hand curled around her customary cup of tea while she makes a notation (in shorthand, he’s looked) on the pad of paper she keeps at her elbow during every meeting. This is her way of asking him to elaborate. He’s not exactly sure why he started their weekly conversation this way and pauses before he answers.

“I mean, Dwight brought it up. On Sunday. He thinks we should have a dog. We’ve talked about it before but -- ” He stops.

She studies him over the tops of her reading glasses, giving him her most Dr. Mirren of interrogative looks: “Do you want a dog?”

“I -- yes.” He does. But something about actually adopting one frightens him. Which is why he’s brought it to therapy. “But. It seems -- selfish? I don’t know how we’d take care of it. I mean -- do we have enough room for a dog? And would it come to work with Audrey and me, or stay at the restaurant with Duke -- can you even have dogs in a restaurant? Isn’t that against code or something?”

Martha pulls her spectacles off and folds the stems, placing them on the small table at her elbow along with her notebook and pen.

“These all seem like questions that you, Duke, and Audrey could solve. Together.” He’s been working with her long enough to have anticipated this response, even as the explanations are coming out of his mouth; he knows they aren’t the underlying reasons why he’s been resisting his urge to adopt a dog.

“It’s -- it’s a big commitment, adopting a dog,” he says. “Even after I moved out of the house -- the Chief’s house -- I always held off because I was by myself and worked long days and it’s Haven -- you feel bad -- _I_ felt bad -- putting an animal like that in harm’s way. If I’d taken a dog to work…”

“So you were concerned you would fail the animal and made the decision that the risk, at the time, outweighed the benefits for yourself and the animal. Understood.” She nods in that way she has, in one gesture managing to convey respect for his past decisions and skepticism regarding their continued usefulness. “And would you still say the same?”

Nathan swallows down his knee-jerk response and considers.

“I think -- I think we would fail -- I mean, I still can’t see -- can’t see how Duke and Audrey and I -- can’t trust that it lasts. And then -- is it really fair to make promises to an animal, like that, promises that they’ve have a home you then won’t be able keep?”

It’s not that he isn’t worried about the dog, about caring for the dog, since he harbors doubts about his ability to care for most things, himself included. So yes, he’s worried about the dog. But as he verbalizes the words that have been making their circular, repetitive way around the inside of his skull since Sunday night he listens to them like he listens to a witness statement, one of those interviews where the person’s body language and choice of words tells him and Audrey ten times more than the witness themselves is even aware of.

This is part of why he lets HPD keep footing the bill, at $150.00 as session, even though he hasn’t drawn his own blood in over five months and wakes up more nights than not with enough sensation to feel Duke’s fingertips at rest on his skin.

He opens his mouth and then shuts it again.  

Martha settles back into her chair, cup of tea cradled in both hands, and takes a sip in the silence. He can smell the strong scent of the Yorkshire Gold on the steam rising from both the cup itself and the pot on the table between them. He looks down at his own coffee, picked up en route to the office this morning with Audrey, and resists the urge to defend his question as a legitimate, practical one.

He sighs.

“I go back to my earlier observation, Nathan, that you and Audrey and Duke have it within the three of you to make all the promises, and follow through on them, that a companion animal would need. And we’ve been talking in the past months about all of the ways you and Duke and Audrey are making -- and following through on -- mutual promises to one another. So I’d encourage you to sit with the idea of bringing an animal companion into your household and pay attention to how that would feel.”

Nathan doesn’t _think_ this sigh is an audible one, but suspects that Martha can tell he’s making it anyway.

ooOoOoOoo

Nathan wakes in the night when Audrey slips back into bed after a trip to the bathroom. He feels her settle back against his spine with a release of muscle tension, press a sleepy kiss against his shoulder blade. He’s curled in the middle, like he often is, Duke on his back with one arm threaded under their pillows another thrown over his head.

 _This family_ , Dwight had said, as if it were a statement of fact. _What this family needs is a dog._

“Family” feels like a dangerous, volatile word. He and Martha have talked about this. Audrey may or may not have ever had one. Duke’s father and brother both wanted many things from and for him, with little reference to Duke’s own well-being. And his own parents -- birth or adopted -- well, they’re still a topic he can only look at sideways and circumspectly. He buries his face in Duke’s shoulder and inhales the crumpled odor of sleep-scented skin.

“Family” is what he’s yearned for and never felt he truly had.

To imagine that these two people, wound round him in sleep, are becoming -- may have already become -- his family in the way he’s always wanted but never had, to suddenly find himself where he’d always hoped but never expected to be.

It seems an impossibly fragile gift, one he’s terrified of losing again.

When Audrey and Duke are both within sight, and especially when they’re in physical contact -- not necessarily sexual -- Nathan can let himself believe this could last, that what they have is strong, and enduring. He drifts at night, wrapped in their arms, and it’s hard in those moments to remember how he slept, how he ever felt safe and at rest, before them.

But without the reassurance of skin-to-skin touch, without the bulk and breath of having them near, he’s still a work in progress. It’s still an effort not to panic when more than an hour goes by without a text from Duke waking up his phone, or when he looks up from his desk and can’t remember for a moment or two where Audrey has gone, when he has last seen her.

Nathan worries, secretly, silently, that this is the opposite of family. That wanting, needing, this much of them -- that somehow he’s doing it wrong. Not that Duke or Audrey seem to mind. They’ve developed habits: inconsequential texts, verbal cues, reminders when and for how long they expect to be gone. They leave notes on the pillow or taped to the mirror, text him photos that anchor him to the where and when of their location. Neither has uttered a single word of protest, skepticism, or resentment.

But still, Nathan worries. Worries Audrey and Duke will grow tired of these accommodations. Worries that they shouldn’t feel so essential. Feels the shadowy hellhound of their lost six months baying at his heels and can’t help but wonder if it’s only a matter of time before it catches him up.

Only here, deep in the witching hour of the night, pressed between their heartbeats, does he feel the past recede and new futures open up before them.

ooOoOoOoo

He tries to explain this to Martha at his next appointment, stumbling over the words. She sips her tea and eats a piece of the lavender shortbread, thoughtfully and deliberately, before answering.

“Do you feel that these communications are impeding your work? Inhibiting your conversations with other people? Do they feel like a compulsion? For example, if a text came from Duke while you were interrogating a witness -- a text that had nothing to do with the task at hand -- would you find it impossible to set aside until your work of the moment was done?”

“I -- no, not -- no.”

“And Audrey telling you where she’s going and when she expects to be back -- is this against protocol? Is it a problem for her to pass this information along to you while on the job?”

“No, no it’s -- actually, it’s pretty standard practice for all of us to keep our partners up to date on duty. I guess, I guess we’ve gotten used to it at work and it just bleeds into routines at home, too.”

“And you do this, too -- the notes, the ‘I’m running out for a coffee, I should be back in twenty minutes,’ the texts to Duke and Audrey to ask how their day is going?”

“I -- yes?” Of course he does; he’s responding to their --

“Nathan.” She sets her teacup down on its saucer, precisely as always, and leans forward with her elbows on her knees, hands clasped loosely in front of her. “Unless you feel these things are interfering with your work or social life -- if you felt, for example, that you couldn’t enjoy a conversation with a friend over drinks without checking your phone constantly, or that you couldn’t focus on your job when Audrey wasn’t in the room with you, then we would probably need to work toward some change in behavior. But that’s not what you’re telling me. What you’re actually telling me is that you, Audrey, and Duke have worked out a system for communication that’s flexible enough to give all three of you independence of movement while also keeping your anxiety at a manageable level.”

“As time goes on, you may find it feels less necessary, less something you need to do and more something you do because it brings you pleasure.” She leans back again, picking up her pen and tapping it thoughtfully on the ever-present notepad before scribbling a few words to herself.

She looks back up at him. “Then again,” she offers dryly, “it may never stop being necessary. This _is_ Haven, after all. It’s not actually irrational behavior in this town to keep your loved ones close to hand.”

Nathan snorts.

ooOoOoOoo

Dwight comes by Nathan’s desk a couple of weeks later, just as Nathan is starting to think about running out for his second coffee of the morning. It’s been a quiet few weeks and everyone at HPD has run out of excuses not to catch up on the gently-fudged paperwork they all put on the back burner until they don’t have anything else to work on.

“Need you on a call, Wournos,” Dwight says, thumbing toward the door.

“You got it.” Nathan’s so grateful to have something to do other than come up with a reasonable explanation for a family with daughters who can call fish out of the water that he hits “save” before finishing the sentence he was typing and logs off his machine.

“Bring me back an iced cold brew, two sugars,” Audrey says without looking up from her desk.

“You gonna make it ‘til we get back, Parker? Could be awhile.” He raises an eyebrow at Dwight, trying to gauge from expression what sort of wingman services he’s providing, but Dwight just looks back at him blandly and jerks his head toward the door: “We’ll take my truck.”

Audrey looks up from her screen and sticks her tongue out at him. “Have fun. Be careful. Be home for dinner.”

He throws her a salute and heads out the door after Dwight.

“So -- what’s the call?” He asks, as Dwight backs his truck out of the station parking lot.

“Mostly I was just tired of writing up the goddamn reports.” Dwight says.

“You and me both.”

“Also got a call from a friend of mine. I got a delivery needs pickin’ up and could use an extra pair of hands.” Dwight is clearly in one of his “man of few words” moods.

“And you figured I was the man for the job.”

“I happened to be walking by your desk when the text came. Also appreciate a man who can ride shotgun in my truck without needing to keep up a conversation.”  

There’s something Dwight isn’t telling him, but his body language is relaxed and he’s driving less than five miles above the speed limit, so Nathan figures he can wait Dwight out.

Dwight’s route takes them north out of town along Route 1. After about twenty minutes of companionable near-silence, Dwight slows and left turns onto a dirt road, then right into a wide gravel yard a couple hundred yards from the main road. A hand-painted sign nailed to a tree above the snow line just reads LASSITER in weathered orange.

There are a couple of vehicles, a van and a truck, pulled into the shade under the pines. Across the clearing there’s what had started life as a double-wide trailer, with a ramp leading up to the front door, and a broad porch stretching around back. Directly in front of where Dwight brings the truck to a stop is a pole barn, an elderly border collie sunning itself in the open doorway.

The dog’s head comes up off its paws when Dwight cuts the engine, and when Dwight opens the door and steps down from the cab the dog’s tail thumps on the ground.

“Hey, Ray!” Dwight calls, walking toward the pole barn, “Trace texted to say you guys found what I was looking for?” He reaches down to the collie as he passes into the shadow of the interior, giving the brindled head a scratch, and receives a lick on the hand in return.

Nathan’s a few steps behind Dwight, blinking and pulling off his sunglasses as he steps from the mid-day sun into the dim interior of the barn. It’s a few degrees cooler inside, the air smelling of sawdust and well-cared-for animals.

As his eyes adjust, Nathan sees a bank of low enclosures along one side of the wall, several of which seem to be home to female dogs and litters of various ages from nursing newborns to tumbling puppies. He can hear the small yips and practice growls of the more energetic among them over the low hum of the ventilation fan and the industrial fridge in what looks to be a kitchen set-up toward the back and the burble of talk radio, turned on too low to identify the station. A broad-shouldered man, presumably Ray, sits at a work table to their right, bottle-feeding something -- presumably one of the pups -- wrapped snugly in a nest of toweling on his lap.

The nature of Dwight’s errand is becoming clearer by the minute.

“Hey, man! Good to see you. Trace said you’d be stopping by today. You want something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Cider? I’ll call over to the house and let her know you’re here.” Ray pulls the bottle away from the black and caramel pup in his lap, which has apparently fallen asleep mid-meal, and sets the bottle on a clear space on the table before disengaging the hand brake on his wheelchair and rolling a few feet backward to where an intercom box is fixed to the wall of the barn.

 _“What’s up?”_ The woman’s voice on the other end is presumably Tracey.

“Hey hon, Dwight and his buddy are here. You wanna--”

_“I’ve already got the kettle on. Coffee? Tea?”_

“That’s what I said. What’ll it be?” Ray cocks his head in their direction.  

“Earl Grey please, Trace,” Dwight says, loud enough to pass through the intercom to the house.

“Same for me is fine,” Nathan says, not wanting to put their hosts to too much trouble.

“And I could use a root beer, babe -- maybe some of those pretzels?”

 _“Sure thing. Be out in a few,”_ and short buzz indicates she’s disengaged. Ray adjusts the sleeping bundle on his lap and rolls back over to where they’re standing.

“Ray, Nathan; Nathan, Ray,” Dwight says by way of introduction as Nathan reaches out to take the man’s proffered hand. They exchange the silent Mainer nod of greeting.

“So here she is,” Ray says, gesturing toward his lap. “We think she’s at least part rottweiler, maybe some retriever or collie mixed in, but look at those paws,” he untangled one of the puppy’s paws from the towel, “she’ll be a good size, this one.”

“Tracey said someone brought her in on Tuesday?”

Ray nods, gathering the puppy up in his hands and handing her up to Nathan who accepts her reflexively, like he does on the rare occasions when someone hands him an infant to hold. The pup yawns and stretches in his palms, rolling onto its back and proffering its tummy for him to rub without ever entirely waking. He runs his palms down her silky belly and feels it distended from the recent meal. There’s a small hiccup as the pup settles back into sleep, trusting him to hold her steady.

“Our vet checked her over when he came by yesterday to check on Talia and her litter” -- a gesture toward the Irish setter directly across from where they’re talking -- “and said she’s a bit under-fed but otherwise unharmed, healthy. The guys who found her at the worksite heard her crying. Still had a strong pair of lungs on her. We’ve checked with the other local shelters and foster programs in the area -- no one’s reported a recent intake matching the description so we suspect the mother moved the others and left this one behind, by accident or necessity. She’ll need close watching and regular feeding for a few weeks, but no reason she shouldn’t thrive.”

It’s not like Nathan doesn’t know where this conversation is headed, but he asks anyway. “Wouldn’t it be better for her to stay with one of the litters here?”

“She’s been sleeping with Talia’s munchkins last couple of nights,” Ray nods, “but Talia’s already got a big litter to tend to and we’re worried about putting a strain on her milk supply. This one’s gonna need some focused attention over the next few weeks and we’re scheduled to take in another two pregnant foster dogs from Bangor at the end of week.”

In his back pocket, Nathan’s phone whistles its signal that Duke’s sent a text. He shifts his tiny burden into the crook of an arm, “Excuse me, I’ll just--” he fishes the phone out and thumbs the screen on as Tracey appears in the doorway with a tray of mugs, a pot of tea, and an array of crackers, cheese, and the pretzels Ray had requested.

As the other three exchange pleasantries and make room for the tray on the broad yet overflowing worktable, Nathan unlocks the screen and pulls up the message.

_Audrey says you’re out on a call? Check in when you can._

Nathan considers for a moment, then juggles the phone one-handed to type back, _I think we were just conned into this addition to the family_ , adding a picture of the puppy now snoring gently in the crook of his arm. It doesn’t show much more than her soft, floppy ears -- each not much bigger than the pad of his thumb -- and the caramel markings across her muzzle. He hesitates for a second or two before sending the message to both Duke and Audrey.

 _Toyon!_ comes the reply from Duke less than thirty seconds later.

 _Scuppers._ Nathan responds, automatically.

Then, _It’s a girl._ He’d somehow always pictured a male dog. Neither name seems right for the pup in his arm.

Audrey’s text comes a minute later, while he’s sipping his cup of Earl Gray and watching Ray make out the list of supplies they’re going to need.

_She’s beautiful, Nathan. Did you ever doubt Dwight would con you into a dog? That man cheats at cards. I withdraw my request for coffee. Bring puppy instead._

In his lap, the puppy hiccups again.

ooOoOoOoo

“Well, _hey_ there, sweetheart!” Audrey says to the puppy, awake and wriggling in Nathan’s grasp by the time they get back to the station. It’s at the tail end of the lunch hour and the few officers who haven’t found reasons to step out for the afternoon drift from their desks into the office he and Audrey share, drawn by the inexorable force that is an infant mammal in the vicinity.

Nathan -- reluctantly, he wryly notes -- relinquishes the puppy to Audrey, and digs out the bottle of formula Ray had sent with them for the road. He’d sent a snapshot of the shopping list to Duke, who’d promised to run out between the lunch and dinner shifts at the Gull and pick up the necessary supplies. He hands the formula to Audrey and she sinks to the floor with the puppy in her lap to offer it the bottle. A couple of the other officers also sink to the floor in mimicry of Audrey to watch the puppy eat her lunch.

“Her name is Farley,” Audrey says decisively, as the puppy -- _Farley_ \-- tugs enthusiastically at the rubber nipple of the bottle in Audrey’s hand.

“Farley,” Nathan tries in his mouth. He could get used to that.

Out of the corner of his eye, Nathan sees Dwight pull out his cell phone and take a few pictures of the floor-sitting HPD. Nathan does the same and sends one to Duke without comment. He doesn’t feel the image requires any.

Then he adds, _Audrey says her name is Farley._

A few minutes later Duke texts back, _First dibs on the next bottle feeding. And Audrey’s right. Again.._

Nathan smiles.

While the rest of the department is focused on Farley -- they’re passing the pup and the bottle around now, like a game of musical chairs, reminiscing about their own experiences with pets -- Nathan slips behind his desk and wakes up his computer. He forwards a couple of photos from his phone and then attaches them to an email to Martha. Subject line: “new family member.”

He’d used the word “family” in his text to Duke, not realizing until Dwight was driving him back to the station that he hadn’t even hesitated. It’s what they are now. Terrifying and comforting in equal measure.

 _See you on Thursday_ , he writes in the body of the email before hitting send. They won’t be at a loss for things to talk about.

Half an hour later, on his way back from the restroom, Nathan passes Dwight’s desk and Dwight looks up from his computer: “What are you doing still here, Wournos?” he asks. “You and Audrey take Farley home. We got the office covered.

“But we --” Nathan gestures toward his desk, the forms in triplicate he’d started in on that morning: the official versions, the quasi-official versions, the internal versions that actually tell the team what happened.

“Oh, look,” says Dwight, without actually looking down at the paperwork in front of him, “It turns out ‘fostering a rescue animal’ qualifies as a significant life event entitling you to six weeks of paid family leave.”

Nathan looks over at Audrey, cradling a sleeping Farley in the crook of her arm while she sorts through a pile of mail on her desk with her free hand.

“Go home, Nathan.” Dwight stands up, “Take Audrey with you. I know where to find you two if I need you.”

He heads for the breakroom, coffee cup in hand, stopping at the door to say over his shoulder, “See you on Sunday. I’ll be over for dinner at six.”

**Author's Note:**

> Credits / Product Placements:
> 
> Title of the work is from the folk song [Come by the Hills](http://www.scottish-folk-music.com/lyrics/come-by-the-hills.htm).
> 
> “Seven-to-one” is what my grandparents called the game [Oh Hell](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oh_Hell).
> 
> Over cards, Dwight is drinking [Spinnaker](http://www.risingtidebrewing.com/spinnaker) from Rising Tide Brewing (Portland, Me.). I promised myself I'd buy a bottle when I posted this fic, so now I know what I'll be drinking next weekend!
> 
> The possible names they float for the puppy are all references to canine-themed literature. [The Sailor Dog](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scuppers_The_Sailor_Dog) by Margaret Wise Brown (1952) was a household favorite when I was growing up; [Toyon, a Dog of the North and His People ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scuppers_The_Sailor_Dog) by Nicholas Kalashnikov (1950) is one my wife remembers from her childhood; and [Farley Mowat](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Farley_Mowat) is a Canadian author, responsible for -- among other delightful works -- the memoir _The Dog Who Wouldn't Be_ (1957). And before you ask, I have no idea why my memories regarding dog-themed literature seem stuck in the 1950s.


End file.
